


Picture of the Sky

by vifetoile



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Photography, genfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vifetoile/pseuds/vifetoile
Summary: Fareeha is a hobbyist photographer, and once in a great while, she can take a snapshot of a relationship.





	

It was a perfect shot, with Li-Jiang Tower in the background. The rain was clearing. The little girl was looking at Fareeha with confidence but without self-consciousness. She carried an umbrella with cherry blossoms on it. And she was wearing a raincoat of cerulean blue – Fareeha’s favorite color.

Fareeha knelt in front of her, and uttered a phrase she knew in seven languages: “May I take your picture, please?”

The girl paused, and looked up at her umbrella with cherry blossoms. She seemed a little vain of it, for she twirled it before coolly answering “Yes” to Fareeha.

Fareeha lifted her camera – a Multi-Purpose DaVinci 1000 – and clicked a few pictures in “Digital Mode,” and then one in “Polaroid Mode.” A small strip of film filed out of the bottom of the camera, and Fareeha pulled it out and held it out to the girl.

“Watch,” she said, “The picture is developing.”

But the little girl wasn’t looking at Fareeha. She was looking above and behind her, with an expression of growing confusion.

Fareeha sighed. She had been outflanked.

“Ladies, cut it out,” she said.

“Cut _what_ out? We aren’t doing anything…”

“Lena, the very fact that you’re behind me means you’re doing something.”

And now she heard another voice saying “Smile! Come on, show us a smile, dear!”

“That goes for you, too, Angela.”

“Who, _me?_ I’m just trying to get a smile!”

“You’re confusing the poor girl, and ruining my candid shot. Hello, ma’am.” Fareeha got to her feet as the girl’s mother came into speaking distance. Fareeha signaled “quiet” to Lena and Angela, and explained her purpose in taking a photograph of the little girl. When the mother said that she didn’t want strangers taking pictures of her child, Fareeha deleted the digital photos on the spot, but gave the candid Polaroid to the mother, who smiled at it. The mother wished Fareeha a pleasant day and took her daughter away, saying they needed to finish their shopping.

“That was real decent of you,” Lena commented in English as the mother and daughter walked away. Lena was always the first one to break a silence, in Fareeha’s experience.

“It’s the least I can do,” was Fareeha’s reply.

“Such a pretty child!” Angela sighed. “I don’t know what harm one photograph could do, but, _mutter weiß es am besten_ … the mother knows best.”

Fareeha glanced back. “You’d look pretty in cerulean, Angela,” she commented. “How about you stand right where she stood? The light is just perfect there.”

“I’m happy to help!” Angela said, beaming. She stepped lightly into the sunbeam where Fareeha pointed, and she smiled at Fareeha. It was her polite, good-manners smile. Again, Fareeha heard Lena hopping around behind her, probably making faces, trying to make Angela laugh.

“Making faces doesn’t help, Lena,” Fareeha said, exasperated.

Now _that_ brought out Angela’s real smile. She smiled fondly at Fareeha, who grinned back, raised her camera, and snapped the picture.

000

Fareeha grew up knowing well the power of a photograph. One picture could be a window into a precious, too-fleeting moment, or a long, happy day. People left, but photographs could be held and treasured. Photographs made remembering easier. Little wonder that Fareeha treasured the photographs she had.

And taking pictures was, at first, just a fun way to pass the time. In her teens, Fareeha had bought an old digital camera at a garage sale, and tried her hand at photography. As her skill grew, so did her interest, and by the time she was brought into Overwatch, Fareeha could hold forth on photography as a keen art form. Her standby camera these days was her DaVinci 1000 – it was a tool as light and mobile as her life, even if it lacked the precision and subtlety of more specialized cameras. And it helped her to capture and remember every place she’d been.

On long evenings in some anonymous bunk, Fareeha would lie back and flip through the pictures she’d uploaded to the Internet, or her personal file of saved pictures.

Papyrus stalks nodded over the River Nile in her favorite photograph of home. A plate of pancakes and cup of coffee served at McCree’s favorite diner, outside Monument Valley. Mountains and a small town - the view from the front door of Angela’s grandparents’ home.

Speaking of Angela, there was a morning photograph of her, tying back her hair. Fareeha loved that shot. A shot of Castle Eichenwalde from midair – taking pictures in-flight was risky, but as long as no one was shooting at you, then it was a risk worth taking. And a picture that always made Fareeha laugh, of Hana and Junkrat making faces in their baseball uniforms during what had gone down in Overwatch legend as “The Game that Never Was.”

And the _next_ photograph always held a fascination for Fareeha. A change from focusing on the past to living in the present. Fareeha developed, over the years, a second-nature awareness of the light around her, the space she was in, and the composition of the world before her eyes. It was a natural extension of the awareness that made her a good soldier and Raptora pilot.

000

Some people were dismissive of her photography.

“You need to put the camera _away,_ man.” Lucio shook his head at her. “You gotta live in the moment!”

“This _is_ how I live in the moment,” said Fareeha.

Lucio would let the matter drop there.

Zenyatta did not exactly like to be photographed. “My face is still, and without expression,” he told her. “What do you find of value in photographing me?”

“It’s aesthetically pleasing,” was her reply.

“Aesthetics. Mysterious, subjective, but powerful,” he replied. “If you have any photographs of me that you judge very pleasing, please, send them to me so that I may save them for study.”

“Understood,” said Fareeha. And so Zenyatta, in his tolerance, wasn’t so bad.

But Hana was, well, difficult. The second that Hana caught sight of Fareeha’s camera, she _always_ , without fail, puckered her lips, or winked cheekily, or flashed the “peace” sign at her, or, sometimes, did all three. It took more patience each time for Fareeha to explain, “No, candid means _as you are_. Not pretending or posing, Hana.” And then Hana would be upset, because all she wanted was her picture taken, and that tenuous friendship that Fareeha was trying to build with the girl was that tiny bit damaged.

“Let her be who she is,” said Angela. “One day she’ll understand.”

000

When Ana returned into Fareeha’s life, it was a long time before Fareeha took a photograph of her. Fareeha had to mourn the years lost to them, and mourn the saintly image of her lost mother contrasted with the earthy old woman that she now had in her life. That meant anger, that meant dissonance, that meant sometimes going to the gym and beating up a sandbag.

It took time to welcome Ana and fold her back into Fareeha’s life. But there came an early morning when Fareeha was up to exercise, and Ana was fixing breakfast for the Overwatch team. Fareeha, on her way to the gymnasium, glimpsed her mother making _mnaeesh_ in the kitchen. She watched Ana for a while – the silver glinting in her braid, her fingers leaving prints in the bread dough – and then Fareeha stole back to her room to pick up her DaVinci 1000. The first pictures she took were from a distance, and then she entered the kitchen itself, and Ana spotted her.

“Just act natural,” Fareeha said, a bit gruffly. “The morning light is good.”

“Yes,” Ana agreed, “the morning light is good.”

Fareeha started taking pictures. And the photographs did not quite capture the sense in the room, the feeling of a relationship settling. None of the photographs captured the smell of the _za’atar_ , or the morning chill, or the small-talk conversation that Ana and Fareeha shared. But the photographs captured the light in the air, and Ana’s smile as she looked at her daughter.


End file.
